Don't expect brilliance. Mediocre at best.

Toast and fire

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Not just mine, everyone’s.

I am a toaster.

There I was sitting on the top shelf of the best appliance store in the city, happy and clean. And unlike my fellow appliances, I never wanted to be used by a human. I wasn’t always like this.

Until two weeks ago, I was perfectly content with the idea of being bought by a tiny family or perhaps, a lovely maiden and spend the rest of my life providing crispy squares of yeast that these humans love so much. Two weeks ago, I would even wait for someone to walk into the store, take one look at my beautifully bright and shiny exterior and yell, “That’s the toaster I want,” and proudly carry me home.

You must be wondering what happened two weeks ago.

I am a fairly new guy on the block, as my fellow toasters like to tease me. I arrived a month ago, a newer model with the ability to imprint weird things on the yeast squares. The other toasters were pretty jealous of me. Some of them had only temperature control while others, not even that.

I was one of the 50 new toasters and believe me, the others were sold within the first week. Now, don’t laugh. I am already teased enough. There is an old black toaster on the shelf below mine which keeps cackling whenever a customer pauses by our section and doesn’t pick me.

Brad, the store owner or our landlord, if you may say so, also repairs appliances for fun. Two weeks ago, he came in with a lovely woman who was carrying a very large box. The box opened to reveal a toaster so badly broken that my heart stopped. She hurried to explain how her 3-year-old son had thrown the poor toaster outside their window because he wasn’t given candy.

Anyone who saw the mangled body of that toaster would tell you that it wasn’t a pretty picture. The poor bloke was shattered, the only whole piece was the tiny lever used to pull down the yeasty squares.

Brad told her that it was beyond repair and she, disappointed, bought another toaster, the one which used to sit right next to me. The look on its face, darting from the body of the mangled one to us, made me and the pretty purple sandwich maker on the next shelf swear off humans for good.

There was little peace after that. Two days later, she came back again with another smashed toaster. Looked like her darling boy hated toast more than he liked candy.

After Brad confirmed our worst fears, rather disgustingly gleefully, that she had to buy a third toaster, the same process followed while all the toasters sat tightly while one unlucky bloke was chosen, for death.

Two weeks and five toasters later, the little monster was still not appeased. As the lady walked out with yet another new toaster in hand, with Brad rubbing his hands together and shouted after her about a toaster which can double as a waffle maker.

As I sighed in relief, I suddenly felt a hand on me as a little girl squealed, “That’s the one I want, mom! Alisha has that one!”

I froze. It wasn’t like I had a choice. Brad bragged about my imprinting capabilities as he wrapped me up, like a loving father.